She couldn't imagine why. The manager of a truck farm wouldn't know what to do against a drug lord. "The fewer people who know, the better," she told him. "Fuentes would love to hang me out to dry before the trial. I know too much."

"Marquez told me. He said he had to fight you to get you to come down here in the first place. The thing is, Fuentes probably has confederates that we don't know about."

"Here?" she asked.

"Very likely. I have a few contacts on the wrong side of the law. Word is that he's hiring teenagers for his more potent areas of vengeance. They go to juvenile hall, you see, not prison. I understand that he's recruiting in a Houston gang-Los Serpientes. If you see any suspicious activity here, or any new young faces hiring on, I want to know about it. Night or day. Especially if you feel threatened at all. I don't care if it's after midnight, either."

"That's generous of you," she said, and she smiled.

"Not really," he sighed. "Tris, our baby girl, keeps us awake all hours just lately. She's teething, so you probably wouldn't even have to wake us up."

"Your wife is very famous," she replied shyly.

He chuckled with pride. "Yes, but you'd never know it to see her pushing baby Tris in a cart in the Sav-A-Lot Grocery Store," he a.s.sured her.

Grocery store. The store had a van. Something niggled in the back of her mind. She remembered something. "There was a van," she said suddenly. "This man Castillo that Mr. Ramirez just hired to be his a.s.sistant was talking to some man in a battered old white van. Something changed hands-money or drugs, maybe. It was suspicious, so I wrote down the license plate number."

"Smart girl," he said, impressed.

"I put it on a pad in the kitchen. Would you like to come in and have coffee? Consuelo's made a nice peach pie for supper."

"I love coffee and pie," he a.s.sured her.

"Come in, then."

He followed her into the kitchen, where Consuelo greeted him, but with obvious suspicion. He got the number from Glory while Consuelo was out of the room.

"Consuelo doesn't like policemen," she confided. "I don't know why. I mentioned something about the extra patrols that were coming past the house, and she was belligerent."

"Could be the immigration investigations," Cash murmured. "They've stepped up in the new political climate."

"What about the extra patrols?" she asked suddenly.

He glanced toward the doorway to make sure Consuelo wasn't around. "One of Ramirez's employees has a rap sheet. We've been keeping a low profile, but we're keeping an eye on him." He grinned. "Nice work, getting that tag number."

She chuckled. "I feel like an undercover narc or something," she murmured as he got up to leave.

He laughed. "I can't tell you why that's amusing, but one day you'll see. Thanks for the coffee and pie."

"You're very welcome." She hesitated. "Can you tell me which employee you've got your eye on?"

He sighed. "You've probably guessed that already."

She nodded. "Castillo has tats and muscles like a wrestler. It doesn't take much guesswork. I've seen his type come through my office for years."

"So have I," he said.

"Do you know Mr. Ramirez well?" she asked suddenly.

"Not really," he said deliberately. "I've seen him around. But I actually came today to check with him about one of your employees who may be in the country illegally."

She wondered which employee. "Should I ask him to phone you when he comes in?" she asked.

"Do that, if you don't mind."

"I'll be glad to." She leaned on her cane, frowning. Another thought provoked her next question. "That illegal," she said slowly. "You don't think it's Angel Martinez, do you?" she added, recalling the sweet little man who was always so courteous to her when he came into the house with Rodrigo. She was fond of him.

His eyebrows arched. "Why do you say that?"

She shifted her weight. Her hip was hurting. "It's just that he and his wife, Carla, have three children. They're so nice, and they're happy here. They come from a village in Central America where there was a paramilitary group. Somebody in the village identified one of the rebels to the government authorities. The next day, Angel took Carla and the children to a healer in another village because one of the children had a sore eye. When they got back, everybody in the village was dead, laid out like firewood on the ground."

He moved closer. "I know what life in those villages is like," he said with surprising sympathy. "And I know what good people the Martinezes are. Sometimes enforcing the law is painful even for professionals."

His sympathy made her bold. "I know an attorney in San Antonio who specializes in immigration cases," she began.

He sighed, noting her expression. "And I know one of the federal attorneys," he replied with resignation. "Okay. I'll go make some phone calls."

She beamed up at him. "I knew you were a nice man the minute I saw you."

"Did you? How?" he asked with real curiosity.

"The ponytail," she told him. "It has to be a sign of personal courage." It was overt flattery.

He laughed. "Well! I'll have to go home and tell Tippy that the secret's out."

She grinned.

His expression became solemn. "Castillo is dangerous. Don't get brave when you're on your own here."

"I realized that early on," she a.s.sured him. "He has no respect for women."

"Or men," he added. "Watch your back."

"I will."

He waved on his way down the steps.

RODRIGO WAS CURIOUS ABOUT the conversation Glory had with Chief Grier. Too curious.

"Did he say anything about the illegal immigrant he's looking for?" he asked over bowls of soup at the supper table with Consuelo.

Glory hesitated. She didn't quite know Rodrigo enough to trust him with information of a potentially tragic case.

Consuelo grinned at him. "She's afraid you might blow the whistle on Angel," she said in a stage whisper.

Glory flushed and Rodrigo burst out laughing.

"I would never have suspected you of having anarchist leanings," he chided Glory.

She finished a spoonful of soup before she answered him. "I'm not an anarchist. I just think people make snap decisions without all the facts. I know that immigrants put a strain on our economy." She put the spoon down and looked at him. "But aren't we all Americans? I mean, the continent is North America, isn't it? If you're from north, central or south America, you're still an American."

Rodrigo looked at Consuelo. "She's a socialist," he said.

"I am not cla.s.sifiable," she argued. "I just think that helping people in desperate need is supposed to be what freedom and democracy are all about. It isn't as if they want to come here and sit down and let us all support them. They're some of the hardest working people in the world. You know yourself that you have to force your hired hands to come out of the fields. Hard work is all they know. They're just happy to live someplace where they don't have to worry about being shot or run out of their villages by multinational corporations looking for land."

He hadn't interrupted her. He was watching her with narrow, intent eyes, unaware that his soup spoon was frozen in midair.

She raised her eyebrows. "Is my mustache on crooked?" she asked mischievously.

He laughed and put the spoon down. "No. I'm impressed by your knowledge of third world communities."

She wanted so badly to ask about his own knowledge of them, but she was shy of him. The memory of the fervent embrace she'd shared with him made her tingle all over every time she pictured it. He was very strong, and very attractive.

He finished his coffee, glancing at her. "You're dying to know, aren't you?" he asked with a bland expression.

"Know what?"

"Where I come from."

Her cheeks went pink. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't pry..."

"I was born in Sonora, in northern Mexico," he told her. He skipped the part about his family and their ill.u.s.trious connections, including their wealth. He had to remember his concocted history. "My parents worked for a man who ran cattle. I learned the business from the ground up, and eventually managed a ranch."

She felt strongly that he wasn't telling the whole story, but she wasn't going to dig too deeply. It was too soon. "Did you get tired of the ranch?"

He laughed. "The owner did. He sold his holdings to a politician who thought he knew all about cattle ranching from watching reruns of High Chapparel, that old television Western."

"Did he really know all about it?" she fished.

"He lost the cattle in the first six months to disease because he didn't believe in preventative medicine, and he lost the land two months after that in a poker game with two supposed friends. No ranch, no job, so I came north looking for work."

She frowned. Jason Pendleton wasn't the sort of man who socialized with day laborers, she thought, even though he wasn't a sn.o.b. "How did you meet Jason...I mean, Mr. Pendleton?" she corrected.

He caught the slip, but let it pa.s.s. "We were both acquainted with a man who was opening a new restaurant in San Antonio. He introduced us. Jason said that he needed someone to ramrod a truck farm in a little Texas town, and I was looking for work."

Actually he'd approached Jason, with the help of a mutual friend, and explained that he needed the job temporarily to provide his cover while he tried to shut down Fuentes and his operation. Jason had agreed to go along with it.

Their next conversation, the day Glory arrived, had been about Glory going to work on the truck farm. Jason had told him nothing about Glory, least of all that she was his stepsister, but he hadn't liked Rodrigo's remark about Glory being crippled and it was evident. Rodrigo had the feeling that Jason was overly fond of Glory-perhaps they were even lovers. It had been a taut conversation.

Rodrigo was tempted to ask Glory about her relationship with Jason, but he didn't want to rock the boat.

"Well, your English is a hundred times better than my Spanish," she sighed, breaking into his thoughts.

"I work hard at it."

Consuelo was stirring cake batter. She glanced at Rodrigo curiously. "That Castillo man is going to be trouble, you mark my words."

He leaned back in his chair and looked at her. "We've been over this twice already," he said quietly. "You want your son to work here and take his place. But Marco doesn't know how to manage people." He said it in an odd tone, as if he was holding something back.

She glowered at him. "He can so manage people. He's smart, too. Not book smart, but street smart."

Rodrigo looked thoughtful. His eyes narrowed. "All right, then. Have him come and talk to me tomorrow."

Consuelo's dark eyes lit up. "You mean it?"

"I mean it."

"I'll call him right now!" She put down the bowl of unfinished batter and left the room, wiping her hands on her ap.r.o.n as she went.

"Is he as nice as she is? Her son, I mean?" Glory asked.

Rodrigo seemed distracted. "He's a hard worker," he replied. "But he has some friends I don't like."

"I'll bet I have some friends you wouldn't like," she retorted. "It's the boy who'll be working here, not his friends."

He c.o.c.ked an eyebrow. "Outspoken, aren't you?"

"From time to time," she confessed. "Sorry."

"Don't apologize," he replied, finishing his coffee. "I like to know where I stand with people. Honesty is a rare commodity these days."

She could have written a check on that. She was lied to day by day on the job, by criminals who swore innocence. It was always somebody else's fault, not theirs. They were framed. The witnesses were blind. The arresting officers were brutal. They weren't getting a fair trial. And on and on it went.

"I said," Rodrigo repeated, "will you and Consuelo have enough jars and lids, or should we get more?"

She started. She'd been lost in thought. "Sorry. I really don't know. Consuelo brings them out. I haven't really paid attention to how many we've got."

"I'll ask her on the way out. If Castillo gives you any more lip, tell me," he said, pausing in the doorway. "We don't allow hara.s.sment here."

"I will," she promised.

She watched him go into the other room, heard the murmur of his deep voice as he spoke to Consuelo. He really was a handsome man, she thought. If she hadn't been carrying so many emotional scars, she might have looked for a way to worm herself into his life. It was odd that a man like that would still be single at his age, which she judged to be mid-thirties. It was none of her business, she reminded herself. She only worked here.

TWO DAYS LATER, A late model SUV pulled up in the driveway. A slender, pretty blonde woman got out and darted up the steps. She was wearing blue jeans and a pink tank top. She looked young and carefree and happy.

Consuelo was busy washing jars and lids before they started on the next batch of peaches when there came a knock at the door. Glory went to answer it, leaning heavily on the cane. She'd had a bad night.

The young woman grinned at her. "Hi," she said in a friendly tone. "Is Rodrigo around?"

For some inexplicable reason, Glory felt her heart drop. "Yes," she said. "He's at the warehouse overseeing the packing. We're stocking it with fruit preserves and jellies for the Internet business."

"Okay," she said. "Thanks."

If it had been anyone else, Glory would have gone back to the kitchen. But the woman fit the description Consuelo had mentioned, and she was curious. She watched as the other woman approached the big warehouse out back. Rodrigo spotted her and his whole face became radiant. He held out his arms and she ran into them, to be swung around and kissed heartily on the cheek.

If Glory had needed reminding that Rodrigo was handsome enough to attract almost any woman he wanted, that proved it. She turned and went back into the house. It hurt her that Rodrigo wanted someone else. She didn't dare question why.

He didn't bring the visitor into the house. They stood together under a big mesquite tree, very close, and spoke for a long time. Glory wasn't spying. But she was looking out the window. She couldn't help it. That those two had shared a close relationship was impossible not to notice.